The Unsaid Note
by Ghulgash
Summary: The centaurs had reason to fear the death of a foal in their forest. To young Harry Potter, death is simply the beginning. No pairings. AU, multiple crossover. Dark!Harry. Currently rated T, may be raised to M for later chapters.


**The Unsaid Note**

By

Ghulgash

_Summary: The centaurs had reason to fear the death of a foal in their forest. To young Harry Potter, death is simply the beginning. No pairings. AU, multiple crossover. Dark!Harry._

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any other published work of fiction referenced in this story. The plot is all that's mine, but it's mine alone.**

"_Life is for the living._

_Death is for the dead._

_Let life be like music,_

_and death a note unsaid_."

- Langston Hughes

**Chapter 1: The Haunting of Little Whinging**

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Vernon Dursley, a large, no-necked man with more than a passing resemblance to a walrus, was the director of Grunnings, an industrial firm that specialized in drills. Petunia Dursley, a thin woman clearly compensating for her husbands lack of neck, was quite happy to invest her days in idle gossip, housework, and care of their dear son, Dudley. At least, when he was home.

Dudley, at the age of twelve, was a husky boy- in the eyes of his parents, at least. To everyone else, he was big, spoiled, and _mean._ Last year, Dudley started secondary school at Smeltings, Vernon's alma mater. At this time, Dudley would normally have been at Smeltings until Christmas Holidays. However, as his mother would say, he "had recently undergone surgery, and needed some time to recover." When asked about what kind of surgery, she would pointedly ignore the question.

He certainly did have surgery, that much was true. However, the reason of this surgery had to do with a closely guarded secret. This secret, which this perfectly normal (thank you very much!) family would happily make disappear, was _magic._

Last year, when their nephew was accepted into a school for such freakishness, one of _his sort_- a giant brute of a man- cast a spell on Dudley, causing him to sprout a pig tail. It had taken them over a year to get their son seen by one of London's finest surgeons- discreetly, of course. All because their nephew couldn't simply be normal_._

Any mention of that boy would leave Petunia sniffing disdainfully, Vernon's mustache twitching, and Dudley grasping his sore bottom. That boy, Harry Potter, lay at the center of their secret. It was his very presence that left such a normal, upstanding family entangled in all this freakishness.

The boy was left on their doorstep, on a chilly November morning. His unnatural parents, including Lily's estranged sister, found themselves blown up by some dark wizard or other. They took him in, albeit reluctantly. The clothed him, fed him, kept a roof over his head. Sure, they were hard on the boy. That was because they were trying to stamp the magic out of him. So he slept in a cupboard. So he was fed smaller portions than Dudley. So the boy had a larger than average list of chores, compared to Dudley's complete lackthereof. So _what?_

None of it mattered, in the long run. The boy was still one of _them_. He still went to that ruddy school. And sure enough, despite all of their attempts, he met the same end as his parents. On the evening of the first of June, 1992, they received a black owl. A black owl with a black envelope.

_To Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,_

_It is our deepest regret to inform you, that yesterday, on the 31st of May, the body of Harry Potter was found in the Forbidden Forest, on the grounds of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As his only living relatives, you have our deepest condolences for your loss. The loss of life in one so young is a most grievous tragedy._

_Enclosed is the Order of Merlin, First Class, awarded posthumously for his involvement in the vanquishing of the Dark Lord. The sacrifice of the Potters saved countless lives, both magical and muggle, and this small token is a humble Thank You from the Ministry of Magic._

_ If there is any service we could provide to help your family through this difficult time, do not hesitate to send us an owl. Thank you, for your family's service._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Bartholomew Bogtrotter,_

_ Private Solicitor_

Now, the Dursleys did not like the boy. Unnaturalness of any sort was not their cup of tea, and their nephew certainly was odd. But only a monster would wish a child dead. While the Dursleys had their faults, they certainly were not monsters.

Petunia shed a few tears. The loss of the boy meant the loss of the last remnant of her sister, Lily. Lily, of whom she was very envious of, was still her sister. Even if Petunia wanted nothing to do with her and her dratted husband, she still loved Lily deep down. Tragically, it took the death of Lily's child to finally end Petunia's jealousy.

Vernon sadly shook his head. He had just wanted to make the boy normal. He knew this magic nonsense would only end badly. While he disliked the brat, no child deserved to be snuffed out. At least, he believed, not until they grew up and lived on the dole.

Dudley didn't feel a twinge of sadness. He hated the freak, and it was good riddance to bad rubbish. However, when he said as much, he did not receive the glowing praise he expected. In fact, that was the only time in his spoiled life that his father ever struck him.

"Do not EVER speak ill of the dead! We've raised you better than that, boy!" Needless to say, Dudley learned a lesson.

...

And so it was, several months after Harry's death, that the Dursley's were enjoying an english breakfast on the morning of the first of October. Vernon was reading the paper before heading to work. Dudley was doing his best to continue his horizontal growth. Petunia was eating as well, but she would occasionally stop and look out the window.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vernon noticed it for the fifth time. _What's gotten into her? _he wondered. He sighed, folded up the _Daily Mail, _and looked over at his wife.

"Er- Petunia, dear- are you expecting something?" She jumped, startled. She then smiled, looking sheepish.

"No, dear. I just keep feeling like someone is watching me. Only, I don't see anyone. It must simply be my imagination. I slept rather uneasily last night."

He looked closely at her, and saw the dark circles under eyes. Indeed, it looked like she hadn't had any rest. He could relate, having had a difficult night's rest himself. And now that he was looking, Dudley seemed to be tired himself. While never a morning person, Dudley had always shown a certain... excitement, at the breakfast table. Today, head drooping, he looked moments away from nodding off.

Any closer examination was forgotten with the chiming of the clock.

"I'd better get going, dear. I have several meetings today, including one with the board. I can't afford to be late for those vultures!" and with a quick peck on Petunia's cheek, he was off.

...

While Vernon was at work, Petunia was at home, waging her unending war with dirt. Aside from the occasional yawn, her zeal and resolve were at their usual levels. She'd keep looking at a window, only to catch herself and blush. _Stop being silly, _she would think to herself. She noticed the feeling seemed particularly strong whenever she passed the parlour. _It must be the mirror,_ she thought. _Yes, that's it! I keep catching myself in the mirror._

It was during one of these moments that she heard a small sound, causing her to jump. She strained her ears, only to hear Dudley make an exclamation over the video game he was playing. _That must've been it._

_Strange, though._ She mused as she worked furiously on a stain in the rug. _It almost sounded as if it was coming from the cupboard. _She shrugged to herself, chalking it up to the acoustics of the house. She soon forgot all about it.

...

Vernon jerked awake violently, as though breaching the surface of a frozen lake. He had been having horrific dreams, the details of which would elude him as quickly as he awoke. All that would remain was a deep terror within him. For the past week, the effects of these dreams were getting progressively worse.

He tried to rise from bed, perhaps to lift his spirits with his private stash of brandy. Try as he might, his body wouldn't respond. He couldn't move, nor make a sound louder than a wheeze. Vernon stared around the room with wide eyes, acutely aware of every creeping shadow and every slight creak.

Though Mr. Dursley was not aware of this affliction, sleep paralysis is not uncommon. Many times, it may be brought about by stress or nightmares, and soon pass as the victim once again succumbed to sleep.

What is uncommon, however, was the duration of his state. He remained that way until dawn broke. When he could once again move, Vernon's relief was forced. After all, he was trying to repress the sensation of a weight shifting off his chest. The weight of a small child.

...

Vernon called in vacation time, in no shape to work. Petunia was too tired to clean, leaving the house in disarray. Dudley, other than a loss of appetite, was in much better shape than his parents. But then again, he would leave the house immediately after breakfast, only returning at mealtimes. He seemed in such a rush to go out and play, that he would hardly be bothered to finish his plate!

Petunia, who had heard of such things, assured Vernon that they may be experiencing side effects from their annual flu shot, which had been taken shortly before their sleep problems began. It seems that Mrs. Number Six had experienced these very symptoms last year.

"Ruddy yank medicine, I'm sure," Vernon groused. "Our healthcare is going to the dogs, I say."

And yet, he was pleased. He had begun suspecting something abnormal. This explanation was far more relieving than some sort of... _witchcraft_. The fact that he allowed himself to so much as _think_ that kind of word all but confirmed to Vernon that he was merely sick, and that this was all in his head.

He had no qualms against conveniently forgetting that he seldom ever got sick, and never enough to skip work or hallucinate. _And for God's sake, he must remember to fix that blasted cupboard door!_

...

It was the third week of October, and the autumn chill did not quite explain the cold inside Number Four. Vernon had the heater looked at, but everything was in order. Aside from the cold, of course. Sometimes it was even chilly enough to see their own breath!

Petunia had completely taken ill. She simply was unable to muster the energy to get out of bed. She insisted that someone was in the room with her, while Vernon patted her forehead with a damp cloth.

"Hush now, Petunia dear. just get some rest," he would say to her. But both knew there was no rest to be had.

They heard a child's wail, and reassured each other that it was Dudley, out in the yard. Both of them recognized the wail. Both of them knew it wasn't Dudley. Vernon excused himself to get Petunia some soup.

Vernon walked down the stairs, and saw a shadow dart from the corner of his vision. He made a note to himself to call in exterminators for their rat problem, fully aware that it wasn't a rat he saw. As he rounded the staircase to make way to the kitchen, the Cupboard door slowly creaked open. Despite the padlock he left on it.

He stopped, fearing what he would see if he turned around. But fearing the unknown far more, he steeled his resolve. With his heart hammering in his chest, he turned to the cupboard. It was completely empty.

He took a step forward. As he looked closer, he noticed that the shadows in the cupboard were much darker than they had any right to be. _Unnaturally so. _He chose to break the silence.

"If you can hear me, boy, give me a sign." _Nothing_.

"Strange things are happening around here. They've happened often enough before, but always around _you._ I tried to do right by you, boy. I tried to stamp some decency in you, have you grow up to become a man." _Complete silence_.

"Instead you turned to _your kind_. We warned you, boy. Tell me, what happened at that rubbish school of yours? Now you met the same end as your ruddy parents. If you had any sort of decency, you would go join them and leave us be."

Petunia's hacking cough broke the quiet. Vernon, having said his piece, snorted and went back to the kitchen. He walked with the dignity of a man who had argued with an empty cupboard and won. He heated up some soup, and brought it up to Petunia, pointedly ignoring the cupboard door.

The door that had quietly closed on its own, lock in place.

...

It was October 29th, and all was peaceful. Petunia was feeling much better, and they both awoke completely refreshed. Petunia clucked her tongue at the state of her house, and gasped at what Vernon had done to her kitchen. Sighing, she went about making breakfast as Vernon read the paper.

Both were pleasantly surprised to see that Dudley had his appetite back. He even spent the morning in the house, playing video games in his room. _Yes, _Vernon thought to himself. _Things at Number Four have gone back to normal._ Looking at Dudley, he realized that this would be the last week before Dudley would have to go back to school.

Sighing happily, Vernon began to eat his breakfast with much gusto.

...

It was October 31st. The night most hated at the Dursley Residence. The night that represented everything they feared and hated. However, the mood was a bit different this year. Perhaps it was the rest. or maybe the relief. Either way, the Dursleys took Halloween almost casually.

Dudley had asked if they could make a Jack'O'Lantern. Vernon and Petunia, in an uncharacteristic fashion, readily agreed. Petunia even helped him carve the face. It was slightly lopsided, giving it a leering expression that was almost unnerving.

Not wanting to hurt Dudley's feelings, she placed it on the table as the centerpiece. She cringed internally, before reminding herself that it would only be there for one meal.

No matter how lenient Vernon was about the holiday, he would not tolerate Dudley trick or treating. In his mind, all the children dressed up as monsters going door-to-door asking for free candy was simply welfare propaganda to teach children early on to beg for handouts.

No, Dudley wouldn't go out and join their ilk. Instead, Vernon bought a bag of treats when he was out. Conservative trick or treating, as it were.

That evening, they sat down to a wonderful meal cooked by Petunia. Vernon talked, Petunia listened politely, and Dudley ate. All was normal. That is, until the lights went out. Just as Vernon was going to rise to check the fuse, the cupboard door opened with a BANG!

As did every door, drawer and cupboard, for that matter. The curtains slammed shut, the only light coming from the maw of the grotesque Jack'O'Lantern. There was a noticeable drop in temperature. Petunia let out a wail of fright, as the other two sat stock still. Everything not bolted down began rattling, shattering glass and chipping plates.

Then the laughter started. A child's laughter, ringing with a chilling false innocence. Petunia grasped Vernon's hand ever tighter, as if she was afraid she would be wrenched away. Vernon was turning a dark shade of puce, mustache twitching in rage and fear. Dudley whimpered, clutching his bottom in fear. No half-brained explanations to hide behind, this time.

"BOY," Vernon shouted. "Enough of this freakishness! Get the hell out of my house. You are not welcome here!"

In response, the Pumpkin exploded, hitting everyone with warm pumpkin shell and bathing the dining room in the sinister dancing of candlelight. The shaking stopped as quickly as it began, as did the laughter. The family looked all about, eyes wild and imaginations in full gear.

After a minute of nothing, Vernon sat back down. He looked down at his hand, which was bleeding in Petunia's grip. He smiled a tight grimace as he patted her hand.

"There, there, Petunia. He's gone. He's done his worst, and he won't be darkening our doorstep again." She began to nod, her eyes still wide with terror. But she then came to a horrible realization.

"Vernon, dear. I can still see my breath."

A high, keening sound was heard. As it rose in pitch and volume, they realized that it was coming from Dudley. Dudley, who looked as if he was looking into the very gates of Hell. Aside from shaking like a leaf, he remained completely unmoving. He stared, unblinking, over Vernon's shoulder.

Vernon's heart began to pound. He stood up slowly, ready to use either his feet or his fists. Sweat poured off his face in a torrent, and he was fighting a wave of dizziness. With a shaky breath, he turned around once more, but not before grabbing a steak knife and slashing it at-

His own shadow. There was nothing behind him except his own shadow, flickering on the wall. He looked at Dudley, who still stared transfixed, and was just about to sit back down, when the shadow _moved._

More specifically, something moved behind his shadow. A smaller shadow, walking out from behind his own. As his own fear turned to terror, the shadow began to turn to him. He couldn't see its eyes, but he could feel its gaze regardless. Icy dread slipped down his spine. His heart hammered, increasingly painful.

_I have one last trick, uncle. _The shade bent down next to the shadow of the table, and made as if to blow out the candle. And with a searing pain shooting from his chest down his left arm, Vernon fell into darkness.

...

Dudley awoke to a hand gripping his firmly. His blurred vision focused, and he saw the weak smile of his father. Vernon Dursley was never a fit man, but he did always exude a certain presence about him. He could give orders, and men at his firm would follow them. In many ways, Dudley saw his father as infallible.

That illusion was shattered by the hospital gown, the plethora of tubes and wires hooked to the elder Dursley, and the shape of the man himself. Vernon's hair now held flecks of grey, he had bags under his eyes, and he looked as if he'd just battled the devil himself to return to the waking world.

From what Dudley had overheard the doctors telling his mum, he very well may have. His father had suffered several massive heart attacks in a very short span of time. If Dudley hadn't called emergency services when Vernon hit the floor, he would've almost assuredly been dead. As it stands, it was a minor medical miracle that he survived.

"Your mother told me what happened, my boy. I couldn't be more grateful, or proud."

Dudley beamed.

Vernon let out a hacking cough, and laid back down in the bed. Try as he might, he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

Within a few days, Vernon was back on his feet, but on a much reduced pace. He grumbled his way through his new diet, complaining constantly about "rabbit food." As the days went by, the grey in his hair became more and more pronounced. "It's a fairly common side effect," his doctors would say. "Heart attacks place massive stress on the body, and you went through three!"

After a long talk with Petunia, the Dursleys have decided to move out of Number Four. It wasn't safe, and none of them could even bear the thought of another moment in that house. As much pride as Vernon had in owning their home, even he knew that he could never view that house as a home anymore.

Realizing the threat that still loomed, they agreed that they would sell it only once they could find a way to purge it of the boy's presence. The fact that they would have to come into contact with all sorts of weirdoes just to get that done was deemed a necessary evil.

Despite the very best efforts of the Dursleys, word quickly spread about "The Haunting of Little Whinging." Kids would dare each other to walk into the tangled lawn of Number four, teens would attempt to sneak in overnight for parties.

One woman, while walking her dog, swore that she saw a little darkhaired boy smiling at her from the window. Seeing the door ajar, she rushed in to aid the child, despite the dog's unwillingness to enter. She ran passed a padlocked stairwell cupboard, into the den. She looked around, unable to see any sign of the boy. She looked in the direction of a creaking sound.

_Strange, _she thought to herself. _I could've sworn that door had been padlocked_...

...

_A/N: Weighing in at almost ten pages, this is the longest piece I've ever written. I'm in the process of writing chapter two, but I would like feedback before I post it. I'm eager to improve my work, and willing to accept any and all constructive criticism._

_Thank you for reading._


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